


12 Days of Blasphemy

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 12 days of blasphemy, Anal Sex, BDSM, Begging, Come Eating, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Laughter During Sex, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Prompt Fill, Tender Sex, food and sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21786976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: Prompt fills from D20Owlbear's 12 Days of Blasphemy prompt event!Link to tumblr postDunno how many I'll do. We'll see.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 211
Kudos: 322
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy





	1. Halo

Crowley holds his legs apart and buries his face in the soft, white hair that tickles his chest. That this is his new normal defies all logic; that he can be on his back with Aziraphale over him, so intimate and close, being loved in every way, it’s more than he could have ever wished for. The slow pressure of Aziraphale’s cock stretching his ass is better every time they do this. He kisses the top of Aziraphale’s head where it’s pressed against his ribcage in concentration and self-control, just to try and release some of the love he’s overflowing with.

“Crowley, you’re so tight. Is this OK?” Aziraphale is always checking in and isn’t that the sweetest thing?

“Yes, don’t stop. It’s really good.”

Aziraphale grunts his understanding and keeps pushing in, filling Crowley inch by delicious inch. Crowley bites his bottom lip to keep from whining; he tries to keep his neediness in check, especially when Aziraphale is already giving him what he’s craving. This is just the slowest part of the process. 

Finally,  _ finally _ , Aziraphale’s hips are flush against him. Crowley gives a little wriggle to feel the depth of their joining. Aziraphale hisses and rocks his hips in response, making Crowley squeeze his eyes shut tight. This is when Aziraphale begins to move, dragging himself out of Crowley only to fill him again. The grunts that he makes are the sweetest music that Crowley has ever heard. As soon as he can bear it, Crowley forces his eyes open to see the way that Aziraphale moves over him. 

The fist that he tries to stuff in his mouth isn’t fast enough to stop the first burst of laughter.

“Laughing at me? Really?” Aziraphale’s voice is ragged but amused.

Crowley shakes his head and bites his fingers until he’s sure he can trust his tongue.

“There’s a light perfectly centred behind your head,” he begins, between giggles. “The way it catches your hair, it’s like a halo.”

“And that’s funny is it?” Crowley doesn’t know how Aziraphale manages to make every sentence sound like “I love you beyond words” but he does, Crowley doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.

“It is a bit funny,” Crowley began, so full of joy that it must shine through his eyes. “You’re, ah, balls deep in a demon. It’s the last place I’d expect to see your halo, love.”

Aziraphale laughs at that, lowering himself to kiss Crowley.

“You have a point,” he admits. “Now, I’m going to make you forget your own name.”

As Aziraphale starts to make good on his threat, Crowley’s eyes roll back until he stops seeing halos and starts seeing stars.


	2. Eastern Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale play a sexy game that gets a little out of hand.

“Please, Crowley,” Aziraphale pleads and, fuck, it really does it for Crowley.

“What? What do you need?”

Aziraphale whines as Crowley strokes featherlight fingertips along the length of Aziraphale’s straining cock. The ropes holding him to Crowley’s throne are really more decorative than anything else, but he’s pulling against them anyway and Crowley  _ really _ appreciates the aesthetic. Thin cords biting into the softness of Aziraphale’s naked body like he’s a trussed pig, it makes him look so helpless.

“Let me come, please, please, Crowley.” Aziraphale babbles, turning his head as if looking for Crowley through the blindfold covering his eyes.

Crowley is enjoying having Aziraphale under his control far more than he’d anticipated, something about the needy way he begged for his orgasm thrills Crowley.

“I’m not stopping you, angel. You can come whenever you want.”

Strictly speaking, Crowley is telling the truth. He isn’t stopping Aziraphale from doing anything he wants to do. He hasn’t told him that he isn’t allowed to come. He has only told Aziraphale that he’ll be very disappointed if the cords holding him in place were to be broken and then made sure that Aziraphale can’t reach his cock without breaking free of his bonds.

“Cro-owley!” Aziraphale sobs.

Crowley gets on his knees at Aziraphale’s feet and rests his head on Aziraphale’s thigh. He blows a stream of warm air over the dark red head of Aziraphale’s cock and grins as it twitches in response.

“Why should I help you come, Aziraphale?” Crowley asks. “What’s in it for me?”

Crowley licks up the underside of Aziraphale’s cock as he waits for an answer.

“Any- anything you w-want. I’ll give you anything.” Aziraphale sounds broken and hoarse.

“That seems like a silly thing to offer a demon, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, matter-of-factly. “What if I want your soul?”

Aziraphale laughs, sounding pained.

“Too late for that, my dear. You own it already.”

Crowley groans and buries his face in Aziraphale’s thigh. He can’t keep up the mean demon act when Aziraphale is saying sweet things like that. It earns Aziraphale a sharp bit to the inner thigh.

“Try again.” 

Crowley sucks Aziraphale’s balls into his mouth and tugs with his lips in a way that makes Aziraphale cry out in frustration. 

“Anything! Anything!” Aziraphale grows frantic and frustrated. “Please, Crowley. I’ll give you my star!”

Crowley nearly chokes and pulls his head back.

“Your star?”

“My star, the one granted to me by the Almighty as a source of power and protection. My  _ star _ , Crowley.”

“That’s what you’re prepared to give me, forever, in return for one orgasm right now?” Crowley checks, speaking slowly and deliberately.

Aziraphale nods.

“Yes, please. Please.”

Crowley takes a careful look at Aziraphale and sees his mistake. With a sinking stomach, he stands and reaches for Aziraphale’s blindfold.

“Red. Red.”

Crowley snaps his fingers and the ropes disappear, a large, soft blanket appears in his hands and he wraps it around Aziraphale’s shivering shoulders.

“What? What’s wrong, Crowley?” Aziraphale holds the blanket to himself, looking confused.

Crowley scoops Aziraphale into his arms and carries him to the bedroom.

“I’m sorry, angel. I didn’t pay enough attention to your face, that’s how I usually can tell when you’re going too deep.” Crowley puts Aziraphale on the bed and tucks the blanket around him.

“No, what? No, I’m fine, Crowley, really.” Aziraphale keeps protesting.

Crowley gives him a look that would have killed the toughest houseplant.

“You tried to give me your  _ star _ , Aziraphale. That’s not fine.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

Crowley finishes getting Aziraphale comfortable in the bed and helps him drink a little water.

“Is there anything else you need? A snack? Another blanket?” Crowley offers their usual list.

Aziraphale shakes his head.

“Just you,” Aziraphale motions for Crowley to join him on the bed. “And I still really want to come.”

Crowley laughs and wraps around Aziraphale, working his hand into the blankets to find Aziraphale’s tormented cock.

“OK, but this is a freebie,” Crowley teases. “No trading your life for this one, OK?”

Aziraphale’s agreement turns into a gasp as Crowley takes him in hand and works the oversensitive flesh towards a well-deserved orgasm.


	3. Prayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is bored and needs something to do. Aziraphale is busy. Crowley will have to convince him to drop what he's doing.

Crowley is  _ bored _ and no matter how he tries to distract Aziraphale, nothing is working. Aziraphale has his nose buried in a book that rivals breeze blocks in thickness, he might not move for days and Crowley wants attention  _ now _ !

First, he tries wandering around the bookshop and moving things, tidying up, straightening precarious piles of books, organising some of the shelves. Usually, this is a surefire way to get Aziraphale to drop what he’s doing and come scold Crowley. He doesn’t even look up from the book.

Next, Crowley lounges in increasingly improbable poses on the antique sofa across from Aziraphale’s chair. He scrolls through his phone, laughing occasionally and pretending to ignore Aziraphale but that yields no results either.

He rummages through Aziraphale’s private desk drawers, even finding the secret compartments and trick doors. Not only does Aziraphale simply turn the page of his book, but there isn’t even anything interesting in the desk. Crowley puts everything back, more orderly than it had been before he started messing with it.

As a last-ditch attempt, Crowley drapes himself across the back of Aziraphale’s armchair, pretending to take an interest in the book while he tries to distract Aziraphale with kisses and gentle touches to the nape of his neck.

“Be a good chap and leave off, would you?” chides Aziraphale in the first words he’s spoken for hours. “You can entertain yourself just fine.”

Crowley humphs and sits on the sofa with his arms folded sullenly across his chest.

“Think I might take a nap, then,” Crowley suggests.

“Good, good. You know where the extra blankets are,” Aziraphale says without looking up, turning another page.

One final idea pops into Crowley’s brain as he’s fetching his favourite blanket for a good sulk nap. He lays the blanket out over the sofa, kicks off his shoes, folds his sunglasses away, and kneels in front of the coffee table between the sofa and the armchair. He rests his elbows on the table and clasps his hands in front of his face.

“Hi, uh, God. It's me again,” Crowley cracks an eye to sneak a peek at Aziraphale. “I need someone to use my mouth, someone who won't run away if I get a bit snakey. Maybe send me an angel, the nicest angel you have. Thanks.”

As soon as he finishes speaking, Aziraphale’s book snaps shut.

“You wily, devious, little snake,” Aziraphale sounds amused and he’s undoing the button fly of his trousers. “That was a dirty trick to play.”

“Looks like it worked, though!” Crowley is delighted and, conveniently, already on his knees.

“I just need to find a better use for your blasphemous mouth, clearly,” Aziraphale pulls his hard cock from his fly and pulls Crowley’s mouth onto it. “I mean, sullying a children’s animated film? That’s low even for you!”

Crowley doesn’t care. Not one bit.


	4. Kneeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale spent the night at Crowley's for a change. Crowley pops out first thing and has forgotten about his guest by the time he returns, much to his chagrin.

It’s clear from the way that Crowley is whistling and singing to himself as he opens the door to his flat that he has completely forgotten that Aziraphale stayed the night and is, in fact, still in bed. Aziraphale lowers his book to focus on the carefree sounds that Crowley makes as he drops his keys and hangs up his jacket. He’s whistling some exciting tune, occasionally vocalising the more impressive part.

“Bah bah-bah bah, dah dah-dah, bah bah-bah bah, bah bah-bah bah bah!”

Aziraphale stifles a giggle at the flamboyance Crowley is projecting, he can almost see him prancing around the flat, completely unselfconscious. It might make Crowley a bit cross for a little while, but Aziraphale knows that he simply must see what his beloved looks like in this moment of simple joy.

He marks his page and puts his book to one side before throwing the duvet off his legs. Crowley is still clattering about so Aziraphale only needs to be quiet, not silent. Crowley seems to have made it to the plant room when Aziraphale reaches the bedroom door and gently pulls it ajar, daring it to even  _ think _ about making a noise.

There’s a gasp from just beyond the plant room and Aziraphale thinks he’s been spotted but the tune comes back louder than ever, Crowley almost yelling his nonsense words. Then, against all the odds, Aziraphale thinks he sees Crowley perform some kind of acrobatic roll across the floor. He can only see a sliver of the room that Crowley is in so he can’t be sure, but it certainly looks like Crowley rolled past. 

Suddenly, Crowley is pushing his way through the spinning door, still keeping up his musical efforts. He looks to have something tucked under one arm and he does a complicated sort of hopscotch across the floor.

“Jehovah begins with an I!” he yells, wobbling precariously and laughing to himself.

Aziraphale is deeply confused but Crowley seems to be having fun and there’s no one else in the flat with them. Whatever Crowley is doing, he doesn’t appear to be distressed or in any danger.

He’s getting closer to the bedroom door now and Aziraphale draws back into the shadow, but not before he realises that the item tucked under Crowley’s arm is an old drinking cup. Older than old, really. Ancient.

The nonsense singing stops again, Aziraphale sees Crowley look confused and start muttering to himself. He’s taking careful steps forward, looking all around him like something might jump out at him.

“Penitent man, penitent man may pass. Penitent man, penitent, penitent. Penitent men KNEEL!” Crowley yells the last words and throws himself to the ground, shielding the cup with his body.

He rolls to one side and pulls himself to his knees, one hand reaching out to steady himself against the wall. Only it isn’t the wall, it’s the bedroom door and it swings open to reveal Aziraphale in his hiding place.

Crowley’s flushed and happy face disappears in the blink of an eye, all the colour drains from his face and Aziraphale feels a stab of guilt that he’s ruined the fun.

“Hello, Crowley. You seem in high spirits this morning!” Aziraphale laughs into his hand.

“Ah, well. Yes, you see. I was, uh, playing Indiana Jones,” Crowley mutters into his chest.

“I’m not familiar with that game, perhaps you could teach me?”

Crowley looks up then, aghast at more than having been discovered acting like a prat.

“Angel, you’ve  _ never _ seen Indiana Jones?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. Rolling his eyes dramatically, Crowley hands Aziraphale the cup so that he can stand up properly and hold Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“I’m afraid this calls for a movie marathon kind of a day. I hope you didn’t have any pressing plans. Although I probably won’t let you watch the fourth one, you’d probably like it too much.”

Aziraphale allows Crowley to guide him out of the bedroom and down to the kitchen where the breakfast that Crowley had gone to fetch was waiting for them.

“Next time, I’ll just carry it home the human way. I’m less likely to forget that you’re here that way,” Crowley says ruefully.

Aziraphale puts the cup on the counter and rummages through the bag to look for the juice he requested.

“It was rather sweet, seeing you have fun like that,” he says as he pulls the carton from the bag and unscrews the lid. He’s about to pour the juice into the old cup when something catches his eye.

_ “Anthony J. Crowley! Is this the HOLY GRAIL?!” _


	5. Golden Rings and Host Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two prompts in one and we're back to some good ol' fashioned fucking.

Crowley is pinned under Aziraphale, his wrists held in places by Aziraphale’s firm hands and his hips straddled in such a way that kept him pressed into the bed. He wriggles to test how determined Aziraphale is to keep him in place and finds that he can barely move at all.

“Oh no,” he plays up his helplessness to an almost comical degree. “A big, strong angel has me in his clutches! Whatever shall I do?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes in response and squeezes Crowley’s wrists a little tighter, drawing a gasp of protest from him.

“Someone has to keep you in line, don’t they?”

Crowley pouts at that and is about to protest that he is always  _ perfectly _ behaved when another thought occurs to him.

“If you’re going to keep me pinned down like this, it sort of limits how much fun we can have,” Crowley uses his most reasonable voice and attempts a shrug. “I mean, your hands are busy, my hands are immobile; what can we do?”

His mouth is covered with a kiss which, Crowley supposes, is something of an answer. He parts his lips and touches his tongue to Aziraphale’s bottom lip, seeking a more intimate exchange. His request is granted immediately as Aziraphale sucks Crowley’s tongue into his mouth and grazes his teeth against it. At this stomach-clenching display of passion, Crowley loses himself completely in the kiss, straining his head towards Aziraphale and focusing all of his attention on showing Aziraphale how much he loves their intimacy.

After some minutes, Aziraphale pulls back and sits up, Crowley’s eyes fix on Aziraphale’s lips, wanting them back as much as admiring the pinkness that their kissing had caused. Aziraphale puts his palms on Crowley’s chest and spreads his fingers, Crowley takes a second to realise that he’s been released and he reaches for Aziraphale’s face, wanting to draw him back down for another kiss.

Well, he tries to. 

Crowley looks up at his wrists and finds the cause of his confusion. During his distraction, Aziraphale has manifested golden rings that hold his wrists to the headboard of the bed.

“You sneaky thing,” Crowley says, impressed. “You really wanted your hands free, huh?”

Aziraphale gives his ridiculously cute pleased wiggle, rocking his hips against Crowley’s cock as a side-effect.

“I thought you’d look pretty with nice bracelets, dearest.” Aziraphale is wearing the expression that Crowley fondly refers to as his “peak bastard” look.

“Pretty? I’m not pretty, angel. I’m scary and dangerous!” Crowley pulls at the restraints and kicks his feet in protest.

“Oh, right,” says Aziraphale, apparently to himself.

He waves his hand behind his back and Crowley feels his legs pulled straight and apart by cold metal on his ankles. Running a hand through Crowley’s hair, Aziraphale climbs off his body and then off the bed.

“You’re a darling little pet, that’s what you are. Now stay there for me while I go attend to something,” Aziraphale smiles softly and then walks out of the bedroom. 

The view that Crowley is treated to of Aziraphale’s naked form alerts him to the fifth ring that Aziraphale has miracled into existence; this one fits snugly around the base of his cock and he can see it gleaming if he strains his neck to look. He’s stretched out on the bed like he’s about to be tortured on a rack, his cock is decently hard already and now this ring seems to be making him harder still. He wants Aziraphale to come back and use him. He feels vulnerable and exposed like this and that always makes him want to be used, hard.

After a few minutes, Aziraphale comes back, holding a plate which he sets to one side, where Crowley can’t see it.

“Get peckish, did we? Indulging in all your hedonistic pleasures in one night?” Crowley knows that he sounds cruel, he can’t keep it in.

“Not at all,” Aziraphale responds sweetly. “This is for you, not me.”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s cock in a hand slick with lube and strokes it enough to coat the whole length and to get Crowley as hard as he can ever remember being. He strains his hips towards Aziraphale’s hand as it moves away.

“Angel…” he starts, unsure even of what he wants.

Aziraphale crawls onto the bed and straddles Crowley once more, lining himself up with Crowley’s cock.

“Such a good pet, aren’t you?” Aziraphale asks as he sinks, enveloping Crowley in tight heat.

Crowley whimpers and tosses his head, struggling against the overwhelming desire to fuck into Aziraphale. He can’t move enough to thrust upwards and claim his pleasure.

“You just lie there, darling, and let me ride you. You sweet thing,” Aziraphale croons, using his thighs and hips to rock against Crowley. “I’m going to use you to get off and then you’ll get a treat.”

If the treat is better than being ridden by Aziraphale then Crowley can’t wait. He does his best to offer the right angle for Aziraphale’s pleasure and watches his beloved’s face as his orgasm begins to build.

Before long, Aziraphale grabs at his own cock and starts to stroke, working to crest that peak and crash down in the bliss of release. Crowley loves watching him, loves knowing that Aziraphale is getting this intense pleasure from Crowley’s cock. His gasps grow ragged and just before he peaks, Aziraphale grabs the plate and spills his orgasm onto it. Crowley is so caught up in the intensity of Aziraphale’s face that he doesn’t immediately understand that he’s been denied the sensation of Aziraphale’s come splattering onto his stomach and chest.

“What? You didn’t? I don’t?” Crowley spews half-formed thoughts.

“Hush, love,” Aziraphale sounds breathy and content. “I’m not denying you. I said you’d get a treat if you were good, didn’t I?”

Crowley watches, confused, as Aziraphale lifts a chunk of bread from the plate and holds it to Crowley’s lips. He opens his mouth and flicks his tongue to taste Aziraphale’s fingers as the bread is pushed past his teeth. 

His mouth is flooded with the taste of Aziraphale, a splash of his spend had coated the bread and, to Crowley’s shock and embarrassment, he moans with wanton lust. 

“Good boy, Crowley. Such a good, sweet pet,” Aziraphale strokes through Crowley’s hair and lets him nuzzle into his hand.

Aziraphale beings to rock against Crowley once more, moving now in a way that sets Crowley aflame with lust. Every minute or so, Aziraphale offers Crowley another chunk of bread coated in come. Each time, Crowley accepts it greedily and laps his tongue at the fingers that deliver it.

He can feel his own orgasm building now, pulling at his core with increasing pressure. He opens his mouth for another piece of bread, silently asking Aziraphale to keep feeding him the morsels. Aziraphale uses the last piece to mop up the splashes that landed on the plate until Crowley grows impatient.

“Take, eat. This is my body which is broken for you. Isn’t that right, Aziraphale? Are we having a sacrament?”

Aziraphale stuffed the last piece of bread into Crowley’s mouth and tossed the plate aside.

“You disrespectful wretch! You heartless fiend!” Aziraphale begins riding Crowley harder now, fueled by indignation. “Filthy, nasty, foul demon, besmirching the sanctity of the sacrament!”

Crowley loses all control then and bucks his hips up as hard as he can, crying out as he fills Aziraphale with his orgasm.

Panting, dazed, Crowley comes back to himself as Aziraphale is vanishing the golden rings of his bondage.

“No fair, angel,” Crowley teases gently. “You know I can’t control myself when you berate me like that.”

Aziraphale smiles and bends to kiss Crowley, thrilling Crowley with the knowledge that his mouth tastes of Aziraphale’s come.

“I really thought you’d have made the blasphemy connection much earlier!” Aziraphale admitted with his Peak Bastard Smile firmly in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Host is another name for the bread of a Eucharist, so, two prompts in one.


	6. Worship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha ha, oops

So, what happened was that I started writing this fic back in November and thought it would be a good fill for Worship. Then I just... kept writing? I don't want it to be lost in the middle of a ficlet collection so, here you go:

[Click to read "Worship"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21894007)


	7. Hospitality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley makes a cup of tea

Crowley has just got comfortable in his corner of the sofa when Aziraphale makes  _ the face _ at him.

“Could I possibly trouble you for a cup of tea?” Aziraphale asks, blinking innocently.

Crowley unfolds his legs and, after giving Aziraphale his toothiest and least sincere grin, stalks off to the kitchen. Aziraphale always claims that he can taste the difference between real tea and the kind that Crowley summons. Crowley has tested this in every way that he can think of and has sullenly admitted that Aziraphale had been telling the truth. He fills the kettle with water from the filter jug in the fridge and clicks it on. While the kettle works itself up to a boil, Crowley switches out the filter in the jug for a fresh one and refills it before returning it to the fridge, getting the milk out at the same time. 

Crowley had refused to allow the angel-wing mug into his home so, when Aziraphale visits, he drinks his tea from the large rainbow mug that Crowley says he bought to annoy a bigoted cashier. It lives in the cupboard above the kettle, next to Aziraphale’s preferred brand of tea. Just before the kettle clicks off, Crowley drops a tea bag into the mug and grabs a spoon from the drawer by his hip. 

They have had more arguments than most about whether the water or milk should be added first. Crowley maintains that the milk protects the tea leaves from scalding and keeps the tea sweeter. Aziraphale insists that the tea doesn’t brew properly unless you add the water first. For as much as they’ve bickered about it, Crowley always makes Aziraphale’s tea just the way he likes it; nothing short of perfection for his angel. The just-boiled water splashes into the mug, soaking the tea bag and immediately turning golden. 

Giving the tea just enough of a stir to agitate the leaves, Crowley waits for the colour to deepen before adding a dash of milk. After using the teaspoon to squeeze the bag against the side of the mug, Crowley judges the colour of the tea and nods. The milk goes back into the fridge and the tea bag is dropped into the bin under the counter. 

As he’s giving the tea one last stir, Crowley remembers the packet of chocolate digestives he picked up on a whim. He gets them out of the cupboard and empties them into his biscuit tin, knowing that Aziraphale hates opening new packets of anything when he’s at Crowley’s place.

With the tin under one arm and Aziraphale’s tea in his other hand, Crowley heads back to the living room.

“Here you are,” Crowley puts the mug on a coaster in front of Aziraphale, opens the biscuit tin, and places it between them on the sofa.

“Oh,  _ thank _ you, Crowley,” says Aziraphale with his little wiggle of delight.

Crowley watches him select a biscuit and then look up, the simple joy and adoration on his face is almost painful to look at. It warms Crowley all the way through, like holding a mug of tea that’s almost too hot to touch.

“Yeah, it’s nothing. Just being a good host, right?” Crowley verbally deflects as he absorbs Aziraphale’s gratitude.

Instead of answering, Aziraphale picks up the biscuit tin and puts it on the coffee table. Crowley gives him a questioning look until his intention becomes clear. Aziraphale scoots across the sofa and snuggles up to Crowley, arranging himself around Crowley’s legs.

“If you say so, dear.”


	8. Shepherd's Crook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one gets a bit deep. Some referenced child abuse. Proceed with caution.

The gentle shepherd guides his flock with his crook. He keeps them from danger and pulls them from harm’s way as much as he dissuades predators. The good shepherd loves his flock and wants it to thrive, to be healthy.

Crowley is hissing at his plants in a low voice. Whether he thinks that Aziraphale can’t hear isn’t clear, but Aziraphale can hear and he doesn’t like the way Crowley is talking. He wanders into the plant room from the kitchen holding two mugs of tea and Crowley immediately straightens and looks as though he’s been caught with his hand in the sweetie jar. Aziraphale hands Crowley one of the mugs and smiles warmly.

“Your plants are looking divine, Crowley. You must be so proud of them,” he takes a sip of tea, watching Crowley’s reaction over the rim of his mug.

In the space of a few seconds, Crowley’s jaw clenches then relaxes, his mouth opens to speak but then he reconsiders, and finally, he huffs air through his nose like a petulant horse.

“They’re doing all right, I suppose,” he allows.

Aziraphale wanders over to a remarkable little variegated ivy and strokes its leaves with one finger.

“I always think you’re so clever to look after all these pretty things. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Crowley softens at the praise, a half-smile curling his lips.

“I just have to keep the environment right for them, y’know? It’s not much,” Crowley shrugs. “Just check the humidity, give them a spritz every now and then, soil acidity, amount of sunlight, temperature. I barely do anything, they do the hard part.”

Aziraphale gives one of his extra-special smiles, the kind that make his eyes sparkle and Crowley melt. It’s progress.

* * *

The waiter hands Crowley a dessert menu and takes his leave, giving them a moment to look it over and decide. Crowley offers it over and Aziraphale reaches for it, his hand just stopping short.

“Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t really. I think I’ll pass,” Aziraphale drops his hand back to the table.

He looks away from Crowley’s face, but he can still see the careful way that the dessert menu is placed on the tablecloth and Crowley’s hand reaching to pull his glasses down his nose. Aziraphale glances back to confirm that, yes, Crowley is looking over the top of his glasses at him.

“What’s this all about?” Crowley asks with a hint of sharpness in his voice.

This is uncomfortable. Aziraphale knows that Crowley hates it when he lies, that since they started their unofficial retirement Crowley’s been persistent in getting Aziraphale to be honest with him.

“It’s an indulgence. I should be resisting this sort of thing, really,” Aziraphale looks down at his hands, worrying the ring on his little finger as he speaks.

Crowley scoffs with his whole body as if his derision is so powerful that it needs multiple outlets through his joints. Leaning forward, he pushes the dessert menu a little closer to Aziraphale.

“Why? Do you think someone’s keeping score?” he switches to a bad American accent, mimicking Gabriel. “Oh yes, Aziraphale refused dessert today. That’s two good angel points for him! Ah, sucked a demon’s cock after dinner, though. That’s going to cost him at least a hundred points.”

A warm flush of colour rises in Aziraphale’s face at Crowley’s lewd suggestion.

“Yes, well, I suppose you’re right. Although, you don’t have to be so brazen about it,” Aziraphale glances around to see if anyone has overheard their exchange. “Still,” he says, settling back. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to abstain on occasion.”

One eyebrow lifts, undeniably questioning. Aziraphale refuses to acknowledge it. He doesn’t want a dessert, it’s decided. Crowley’s face twists from disbelief into an affected little pout.

“You’re denying yourself for no reason and what’s worse is that you’re denying me too,” Crowley looks as sad as a snake in sunglasses can manage. He pulls the menu back towards his side of the table and flips it open. “Passionfruit pavlova? I can only imagine the noises you’d make enjoying that. Poached pears with bitter chocolate sauce? You know you’d be licking your lips and fingers until I combusted. But, you know best. Baked caramel apples with creme Anglaise?” he snaps the menu shut. “You’re right, forget it. I’d discorporate. I’ll just get the bill and we’ll go home.”

Aziraphale snatches the menu from Crowley’s hand and then looks sheepish, regretting his impulsive behaviour.

“I thought, maybe-” he looks at the menu in his hands. “Well, I  _ do _ like pears.”

Crowley grins like the cat who got the cream and knows there’ll be fish later.

“See, minus two points and it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale looks up to catch Crowley’s eye. “I thought it was to be minus 102?”

At that, it becomes Crowley’s turn to blush. He reaches for Aziraphale’s hand across the table.

“You’ll be the death of me, my love.”

* * *

From the way he flips the crepe so smoothly, Aziraphale can immediately tell that Crowley’s been practising. As much as he’s trying to pass this whole thing off as a casual coincidence, Aziraphale knows that Crowley has put significant effort into acquiring a traditional Breton  _ billig _ , learning how to make the batter, and finding out Aziraphale’s favourite fillings. He’s gone to a lot of trouble to make Aziraphale happy. It’s outrageously sweet and Aziraphale is giddy with it.

“Crowley, you are marvellous! You’re a natural at this!” Aziraphale pours his praise thicker than the honey he pours onto his crepes. 

Crowley shrugs and ladles another portion of batter onto the hot surface of the griddle.

“The tools do most of the work, really,” he deflects whilst spreading the batter into a perfect circle with a flick of his wrist. “It’s nothing.”

Aziraphale folds his crepe into quarters and slices off a bite. An involuntary moan escapes him as he tastes the delicate flavours and delights in the perfect texture. There’s a quick glance from Crowley and a subtle smile before he returns his focus to the cooking process.

“The tools didn’t make this batter, though, did they?” Aziraphale asks, pointedly.

“It’s three ingredients, Aziraphale.”

“Well, then I suppose I shall have to express my gratitude to the ingredients, the  _ billig _ , and the cute little tools. Thank  _ you _ , inanimate objects for recreating one of my favourite dishes,” Aziraphale addresses the items on the counter directly, noticing how Crowley’s spine stiffens and he moves just a fraction of an inch closer to him. “I should like to repay the kindness, but I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest idea how!”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley whines. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what, dearest?” he blinks innocently.

Crowley flips the crepe in front of him, giving it his full attention.

“You know I get itchy when you compliment me.”

Aziraphale moves to stand just behind and to one side of Crowley, wrapping his arms around his waist.

“And you know that you deserve recognition for the things you do. The part I love most about this is knowing that you went to the effort for me,” Aziraphale reaches up to kiss Crowley’s cheek.

The crepe is flipped onto a plate before Crowley turns into Aziraphale’s embrace properly.

“What do you want from me, angel?” he sounds tired and wary.

“All I want is for you to know that I love you and that I am so grateful for the effort you put into these surprises,” Aziraphale looks straight into Crowley’s eyes, willing him to accept the compliment.

With a sigh, Crowley rests his forehead on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I know, I do. Sometimes it’s difficult to remember that I’m allowed your gratitude.”

Aziraphale turns his head to kiss Crowley’s jaw.

“We’ll get there, love. We will.”

* * *

It’s a boiling, seething, overpowering thing that roils in Aziraphale’s gut as he walks away from their usual bench at the park. His hands are balled into fists so tight that his nails cut into the soft skin of his palms. The thing that’s really troubling him is that he can’t put his finger on exactly  _ why _ he’s so upset. He’s seen bad parenting countless times that he doesn’t even think twice about flicking a blessing towards the children any more, it’s second nature, but this intense emotional reaction is highly unusual.

Hurried footsteps behind him announce the arrival of Crowley, clutching the two ice creams he’d just bought for them. 

“Where are you going? Did I do something?” he sounds so worried that Aziraphale stops dead to look at him.

“No, dear, no. I’m sorry, it’s not you. I just-” he hesitates and takes the ice cream that Crowley offers. “I needed to get away from all of that,” he nods towards the small family group.

Aziraphale watches Crowley look over to them, back at Aziraphale, and then at the family again. He pulls down his sunglasses for a better look.

“Oh, that’s a nasty one. I’m surprised I didn’t notice earlier, I’m sorry, angel,” Crowley’s tone softens and he drapes an arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Let’s walk around to the fountain, shall we?”

As much as he tries and as far away as they walk, Aziraphale can’t relax. Crowley is rubbing his arm soothingly and pointing out all the birds they pass but Aziraphale can barely hear him.

“You don’t usually see the phoenix out at this time of year,” Crowley says casually.

“Hmm? Oh, no, I suppose not,” Aziraphale wants to jump into the lake and feel the cold water hiss against his burning skin. “Wait, phoenix?”

“There you are! I knew you weren’t listening. I’ve been spouting nonsense for the past hundred metres but you were just agreeing with it all. I’m a little worried that you might have miracled a hippo into St James’s Park, but perhaps you’d like to talk to me about what’s bothering you?”

Aziraphale never likes it when Crowley babbles like this, it always means that he’s expecting something bad and is already on the defensive. The fact that Aziraphale is responsible for making Crowley feel this way adds further misery to his heart.

“I don’t know!” Aziraphale cries. “I got so upset when I saw how that man was treating the little girl, all the names he called her just because she was scared of the swan. I intervened as gently as I could and usually that’s enough but the feeling won’t go away! I’m going to explode at any second, I’m sure!”

Crowley grabs his hand and snaps them both to the back room of the bookshop.

“Sit,” Crowley instructs.

Aziraphale complies in a confusion that doubles when Crowley sits at his feet and rests his chin on Aziraphale’s knees. Crowley removes his sunglasses and looks at Aziraphale with naked concern.

“Talk to me. Just whatever is in your head, get it out.”

Aziraphale grimaces and looks away, distraught. His thoughts are a tangle and there are things that he doesn’t want to face in there. But Crowley is here and they are safe and maybe it’s time to unpack some of the things he’s locked away.

“She was just scared, Crowley. She’s a little girl in a strange place and a big bird was hissing at her, being scared is a natural response. She didn’t even cry or scream, she just tried to hide and that man, her father, he yelled at her. He hits her at home, nearly did it in public a few times from what I could see too. He was supposed to protect her and all he’s done is show her that when the world is scary, she can’t trust him to look after her.” Tears fall down Aziraphale’s cheeks.

Crowley reaches up to wipe them away with his thumb.

“That’s awful, angel. No wonder you were so affected,” says Crowley in a soothing voice.

“But I shouldn’t have been! It doesn’t make sense!” Aziraphale insists.

Crowley gives him a look that he can’t quite decipher.

“Doesn’t it?” Crowley asks. “There’s nothing that you might identify with in that scenario? No time when something that was supposed to be a safe and welcoming home made you feel more scared than the threat you were facing?”

Hearing it like that is overwhelming; Aziraphale’s face crumples as he dissolves into body-shaking sobs. In a heartbeat, Crowley is beside him on the sofa, drawing him into a safe embrace.

“I don’t understand what I did to make them treat me like that!” Aziraphale says between sobs.

“Nothing, angel, you did nothing,” Crowley rocks him, stroking his back for good measure. “You are the best and brightest that Heaven ever had, you deserve so much better than they gave you.”

* * *

  
  


Sometimes the shepherd’s crook hurts when it catches one of the flock.


	9. Altar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has his own feelings about seasonally appropriate decorations.

The electric candle isn’t quite as effective as the real thing but Crowley refuses to take that risk again. The memory of the bookshop in flames is too fresh, will probably always be too fresh. He flicks the candle with a finger, willing it to flicker in a more realistic fashion. Around the candle, Crowley arranges the rest of his haul. There’s a miniature of mead, a sprig of holly that’s heavy with berries, a selection of pine cones in various sizes, some sticks of cinnamon bound with a roughly woven linen bow, and an old gold sovereign. He fusses with the placement of everything for some time, moving the holly to the left of the candle, then moving the cinnamon bundle to the front. Something’s not quite right about it but he can’t put his finger on the problem until he walks away and looks at it from across the room. 

With a quick demonic miracle, Crowley summons a handful of poinsettia leaves and adds them to his display. Finally content, he slouches into the sofa and pours himself a glass of wine with which to pass the time. Aziraphale had said he was only popping out for an hour at most, and that had been 45 minutes ago. 

Sure enough, 56 minutes after he had left, Aziraphale walks back in the front door of the bookshop and shakes the wetness from his coat.

“I think it’s trying to snow out there, you know,” Aziraphale says as he sheds his coat. “But I got the last Christmas pudding from Fortnum and Mason! So it was worth braving the weather.”

Aziraphale brandishes his prize at Crowley, a triumphant grin on his cold-flushed face. Crowley offers Aziraphale a glass of wine and moves his legs to make room on the sofa. The pudding is tucked into a cupboard and Aziraphale is about to sit down when he sees Crowley’s creation.

“Crowley, my love, my dearest, my dove,” Aziraphale doesn’t look away from the display currently taking over his desk.

Crowley’s face breaks into a wide smile.

“Yes?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“ _ What _ have you done to my desk, you unrepentant menace?” Aziraphale puts his wine glass on the coffee table and approaches his desk as though it might attack him.

Getting up to stand beside Aziraphale, Crowley gestures to his carefully curated collection.

“It’s my Winter Solstice altar.”

Aziraphale turns at that, Crowley feels Aziraphale’s eyes on his face, he can almost taste the disbelief radiating out.

“Why on Earth would you build an altar on my desk?” Aziraphale is both incredulous and indignant at once, it’s a combination that Crowley craves more than he cares to examine.

He shrugs.

“I was bored. You’d gone out. What was I supposed to do?”

The noise that Aziraphale makes is something between a scoff and a laugh, he throws his arms wide and indicates their surroundings.

“There are thousands of options available to you when you get bored, Crowley!”

Screwing up his nose at the thought, Crowley reaches forward to straighten a poinsettia leaf.

“Reading? Not my scene.”

Aziraphale’s hand closes on the back of his neck with lightning-quick speed.

“I think you did this purely to vex me, Crowley,” he growls into Crowley’s ear.

Crowley is delighted; Aziraphale’s grip is deliciously tight and the threatening growl sends ripples of pleasure down his spine.

“Perhaps. Maybe I was feeling in need of a little thwarting,” Crowley suggests, noticing that he’s being pressed into the desk.

He brings his arms up to brace himself and move some of the more uncomfortable offerings on his altar away from his face. 

“Stay still,” Aziraphale commands once Crowley is leaning fully on the desk, his arse presented in the way Aziraphale likes.

Hands fumble with his snake-head belt buckle and buttons, loosening his jeans enough before Aziraphale yanks them and his underwear down to his thighs. This game already has Crowley achingly hard and the sharp movement of his clothing against his erection makes him yelp.

“If you wanted me to be gentle, you shouldn’t have been such a naughty demon, should you?” Aziraphale asks, rubbing Crowley’s backside and thighs with the palm of one hand.

“No, Aziraphale,” Crowley responds, thrilled with the steel in Aziraphale’s voice.

The first smack stings a little but not enough for Crowley to react. They’re just warming up so that Crowley will get a punishment that will stay with him for days. Aziraphale is shockingly good at this, a discovery that had been a surprise to both of them. Warmth spreads across Crowley’s cheeks as Aziraphale covers them with slaps and smacks, varying the pattern and tempo so that Crowley is constantly on edge.

Aziraphale wedges his hip against Crowley’s and takes hold around his waist, telling Crowley that the serious strikes are about to start, the ones that constitute his punishment. Once he’s braced properly, Aziraphale brings his hand down hard on Crowley’s buttock, making him yelp.

“Ten of those, I think. Then we’ll see if you’ve learnt your lesson,” Aziraphale gives Crowley a reassuring squeeze as he speaks. “Count them for me.”

Crowley counts the blows as Aziraphale deals them, he hears his voice break at eight and appreciates the soft pets that Aziraphale delivers as he checks in.

“Are you alright, my love?”

Crowley nods, not immediately trusting his voice. He gulps in air and calms himself.

“Yes, angel. I can take two more. Please.”

Sure enough, he can and does, finding the release of tears as the last strike lands. Aziraphale strokes down his back for a minute, telling him that he had done so well, taking his punishment so bravely.

The tears slow almost immediately and Aziraphale’s grip finds Crowley’s neck again.

“You’ve been punished, but you still have to make amends, don’t you?” Aziraphale’s breath is warm on Crowley’s ear.

“Yes, yes, angel. Please let me,” Crowley begs, folding to his knees.

Aziraphale steers him towards the armchair and takes a seat. The tent in his trousers makes Crowley’s mouth water but he keeps his eyes cast down, only aware of movement in his periphery as Aziraphale opens his fly and pulls his cock free.

“No hands, understand?”

Crowley nods, chancing a look at Aziraphale and almost collapsing under the weight of love that he’s beaming. With a smile, Crowley lunges forward and sucks Aziraphale’s cock into his mouth. Using all the pretty tricks he’s learned from months of pleasing Aziraphale, Crowley works his lips and tongue to bring Aziraphale as much pleasure as possible. He drinks in all the gasps and moans from above him until, finally, Aziraphale’s hands sink into Crowley’s hair and he takes control.

“Make yourself come for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale commands as he begins using Crowley’s mouth roughly.

His jeans are still shoved down so Crowley takes himself in hand and strokes to the rhythm that Aziraphale sets with his thrusts into Crowley’s throat. 

“Oh Crowley, you glorious, beautiful thing. Your mouth is going to make me come, and you better swallow every drop.”

Crowley can’t respond but they both know there’s no risk of him spilling any of what Aziraphale gives him.

Aziraphale grunts and spurts thick splatters into Crowley’s mouth, fucking it into his throat as he tries to swallow and that moment of helplessness, of being so utterly used for Aziraphale’s pleasure, it pushes him over into his own climax.

With a wave of his hand, Aziraphale vanishes Crowley’s spend just as he opens his mouth to show Aziraphale that he’d swallowed everything.

“Good boy, come up here with me,” Aziraphale pats his lap and Crowley climbs in, curling up against his chest.

Aziraphale pulls the throw off the back of the armchair and wraps it around them both, pressing kisses into Crowley’s sweat-damp hair.

“How are you? Do you need anything?” Aziraphale asks as Crowley yawns.

“Just this, thank you for playing with me, angel.” Crowley snuggles closer.

Aziraphale smiles against Crowley’s head.

“Any time, my love. You know that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr [Come say hi?](https://luritto.tumblr.com/)


	10. Three Crowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Play sexy games, win sexy prizes.

Navigating with the browser on his phone, Crowley groans when Reddit opens in the mobile version and not the easier-to-use, older desktop version that should have been set as his preference. He had, of course, played an instrumental role in the design of the Reddit mobile site and the redesign but these things were supposed to vex other people, not him. He’s sowing some discord and drama in an already heated debate when Aziraphale approaches, Crowley glances up from his customary sprawl to give Aziraphale a smile only to see a rather more serious expression than he had expected.

Aziraphale reaches down and sets out three large, silver coins on the coffee table with precise and calculated movements. Crowley looks from the coins to Aziraphale and back again, feeling like he’s missing some crucial part of the puzzle.

“Three crowns, Crowley. I believe that was the agreed sum,” Aziraphale says, pointedly.

Knowing that his face is giving him away, Crowley experiences a dawning realisation about the significance of the coins on the table. Memories of a drunken night in the 15th Century filter back through the fog of time, a baseless boast made in an ill-advised attempt to find Aziraphale’s comfort level. They hadn’t spoken for a while after that, hadn’t been drunk together for rather more time still. Now, Aziraphale is presenting him with the exact coinage that Crowley had mentioned.

“Three crowns’d be enough to get you anything you wanted,” Crowley says in a quiet voice.

Aziraphale nods, he looks nervous now that the coins are on the table, like he might be about to ask too much of Crowley, like he doesn’t know that there’s nothing on this earth that he could ask for that Crowley wouldn’t immediately give him. The urge to comfort and soothe jumps into Crowley’s throat, takes control of his tongue, and spills silken words from his lips.

“Throwing around money like that,” he purrs, flicking the coins into his palm. “You must have something truly wicked in mind.”

Aziraphale relaxes, a mischievous grin growing across his face as he moves closer to Crowley and reaches for his hand.

“I’ve certainly got some ideas for a pretty thing like you,” he pulls Crowley up from the sofa. “Don’t think I won’t make you earn every penny of that, though, no matter how much of a soft spot I’ve got for you.”

“Of course, a refined gentleman such as yourself would want his money’s worth.”

Crowley lets Aziraphale lead him to the bedroom, squeezing his hand reassuringly as they go. Aziraphale sits himself on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes.

“Strip for me. Not a dance, not a tease, just let me watch you get undressed,” Aziraphale instructs, leaning back on his elbows.

Awkwardly, Crowley begins to remove his clothing. Starting with his shoes, Crowley kneels to untie them and slipping them off. He places them together with the heels against the wall which earns him a huff of impatience from Aziraphale. His long-sleeved shirt slips over his head and he drops it beside his shoes. As he opens the snake-head belt buckle at his waist, Crowley sees that Aziraphale is mirroring him, opening his own trousers as he watches. Crowley pushes his jeans down over his hips, wriggling to get them past his thighs. He catches his socks with this thumbs and gets the whole lot off at once. His jeans and socks join the pile he’s been growing, leaving only his underwear protecting what little modesty he has remaining. This game is really doing it for him already, as proven by the eager erection growing in his briefs.

Stretching the waistband out over his cock, Crowley looks up to see Aziraphale watching him intently and stroking himself with slow, sensual movements. The surprise jolts him into pushing his underwear down to his ankles in one swift motion, leaving him completely naked.

“You’re a gorgeous thing, aren’t you?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley looks away. “Come here.”

Crowley approaches the bed until he’s within reach and Aziraphale catches his wrist to guide him; Aziraphale positions Crowley between his knees and looks at him as if searching for something.

“Oh yes, very pretty. On your knees now, if you please,” Aziraphale keeps stroking his cock as Crowley kneels, using his free hand to cup Crowley’s cheek.

With the lightest touch, Aziraphale traces his thumb across Crowley’s lips until they part, just a fraction. Crowley’s tongue flicks out to touch the pad of Aziraphale’s thumb and, instead, finds it thrust into his mouth and hooked over his lower teeth. Aziraphale’s fingers curl under Crowley’s chin, holding him fast and forcing him to look up and meet Aziraphale’s gaze.

“You’re not going to like the sound of what I have planned for tonight but you will enjoy it, I’m sure,” Aziraphale teases. “I’m going to use your mouth and take you from behind until neither of us can stand it, all the while I’m going to be telling you every single wondrous thought I have about you. Here’s the important part, dearest, the part I’m paying you for; you aren’t going to deflect or complain once. I expect you to take every compliment as if you deserve because, frankly, you do. Have I made myself clear?”

Crowley’s stomach sinks, this is not at all what he expected Aziraphale to say at this point in their game. Still, as much as he is able, he nods to indicate his understanding.

“Good, wonderful. I should hate to have to correct your behaviour.”

Just the hint of a threat sends shivers coursing down Crowley’s spine. He sucks on Aziraphale’s thumb, trying to convey his obedience, love, and desire with only eye contact and the caress of his tongue. Aziraphale shifts and draws Crowley closer.

“My beauty, my sweet boy, let me have that mouth now,” Aziraphale croons and Crowley opens wide, obedient and willing.

Aziraphale sinks his fingers into Crowley’s hair as he sucks Aziraphale’s cock into his mouth. The grip in his hair is too tight for Crowley to be able to move beyond sucking, Aziraphale controls the depth and speed of his thrusts, making good on his promise to use Crowley’s mouth.

“Marvellous! Oh, my beloved, I adore how you look with your lips around my cock. And you suck me so well. Such a clever creature, so good and wonderful. Your mouth is divine.”

The flow of compliments is unending, burning Crowley’s cheeks and heart in equal measure. Aziraphale knows how much he dislikes this, how it discomfits him to have this sincere praise heaped upon his head. It seems like a cruel trick to play, using this game as a ploy to make him accept the love he feels unworthy of.

He tries to relax into Aziraphale’s hands, to let him lead. The very last thing he wants to be is a disappointment and, well, three crowns is three crowns.


	11. Spices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~Insert obvious joke about "spicing things up"~~

The noises that Aziraphale makes as Crowley laps at his hole are so delightfully sinful that it’s all Crowley can manage to keep his hands away from his own aching cock. Aziraphale, of course, is under no such instruction and is fucking his fist with abandon. He sounds close to orgasm; Crowley picks up on the heavier breaths, the little whines, the plaintive mews. In mere seconds, Aziraphale is spilling hot and wet over his hand and on to Crowley’s face. Eagerly, Crowley chases the drops with his tongue, drawing further whines from his pleasure-racked lover.

Sitting up and licking his lips, Crowley takes in the sight of Aziraphale coming down from his climax. His usually pale skin is flushed pink and blotchy.

“How are you still making that noise?” Crowley asks, fondly teasing.

Aziraphale looks puzzled and props himself up on his elbows.

“What noise? I’m not making any noise.”

They both pause, confused. A moment of silence is broken by a small, squeaky mew that clearly had not come from either of them.

“What is that?” asks Aziraphale, removing his legs from Crowley’s shoulders and sitting on the side of the bed.

“I have no idea. Sounds like an animal.”

Aziraphale stands up from the bed and pulls on his bathrobe, reluctantly Crowley follows suit and covers himself up. The ache of denial tugs at his groin but a fresh round of distressed mewing makes it easier to ignore.

“I think it’s coming from the fireplace,” says Crowley, moving closer to inspect the area.

Sure enough, the sound is much louder here, although it’s echoing down at them. The pair exchange a look and then both peer up the chimney. Crowley gives a resigned sigh and assumes his snake form, scaled-down enough to be able to climb the rough bricks of the Georgian era chimney.

“Do you  _ ever _ have thisss thing ssswept, angel?” Crowley complains as a lump of soot comes away under his belly.

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale chides. “I had it swept after that darling movie came out, the one with the jolly sweep and all the singing.”

“ _ Mary Poppinsss _ ? Angel, that wasss over fifty yearsss ago,” Crowley hisses, his snake-nature getting the better of him.

He reaches the top of the chimney and finds it partially blocked by a birds nest which he has to squeeze around. As soon as his head clears the rim of the chimney, the source of the mewing becomes apparent. A cat has chosen the abandoned nest as a safe place to have her kittens, now the poor things were shivering with the cold. The mother cat is startled by the appearance of a snake and yet won’t abandon her young. Crowley curses his luck and thinks as quickly as he can.

“Angel!” he calls down the chimney. “I need you to be ready to catch. Count to three!”

As Aziraphale complies and gives a steady count, Crowley wills the cats to stay put as he wraps himself around the nest, ignoring the sharp twigs that cut into his sides and, on three, he drops down the chimney with the nest and cats wrapped in his coils. Aziraphale catches the bundle of snake, twigs, and felines in his outstretched hands.

“Oh! Kittens!” he exclaims.

Crowley uncoils and resumes his usual form beside Aziraphale.

“Strays on your chimney stack, angel, really?”

“How darling they are!” Aziraphale is already taken with them, it seems. “Oh, Ms Kitty, what pretty kittens you have!”

Crowley rolls his eyes and pulls out his phone to look up the number for a local animal shelter.

“Angel, do you have a box we can put them in? I’ll not have them loose in the car.”

“I shall name you Cinnamon, and you shall be Nutmeg, you are Paprika, this little one must be Star Anise, look at the little star marking on the nose, Crowley!” Aziraphale is still holding the nest.

Crowley bares his teeth in something that could almost be mistaken for a smile in the wrong kind of light.

“And what name for the brave, clever mother? How do you like Juniper?” Aziraphale asks, ignoring Crowley entirely.

The cat purrs, much more comfortable in the warm and with no snake in sight. The presence of an angel going no small way towards calming her fears as well.

“Aziraphale, you can’t mean to  _ keep _ them?” Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“Why not? They are darling, aren’t they?”

And so, the spice rack, as Crowley would come to refer to them, took up residence in the bookshop. He would soon find it pleasant enough to curl up with five warm, furry, purring bodies who could appreciate a lengthy nap.


End file.
